All Come to Meet Her
by exfactor
Summary: She's never had to work this hard in her life. It doesn't help that nearly everyone seems to be fighting her.
1. Maribel

**Chapter 1 - Maribel**

_August 25,2015_

Senior year of college. Twenty-one years old. Years young? My Santana can never be old. When she was four years old and lifting a giant orange basketball above her head and giggling so much that it nearly toppled her - no, I couldn't have ever envisioned her as she is today.

I'm sure she never envisioned this: me in four inch heels pummeling at the accelerator of the SUV to move her into a one-bedroom, on-campus apartment.

The three hour drive down Route 33 South isn't much. To be honest, Ohio isn't much. Santana knows it. I know it. I have an inkling that even Ronaldo knows it, though he'd never admit it. The only part of our family that seems to like Ohio are the boys, Marco and Javier, and only because they've fallen in love with the packed football stadiums and girls fawning over the line-runners or whatever it is that they play.

The drive is mainly suburban shopping malls and strips of newly planted trees, some yellowing grass, but not much else in the way of culture. Ohio. Thank god for weekend trips to Chicago and New York City. Thank god for money, really. And Ronaldo, always Ronaldo.

When we stop outside of Marysville so that Santana can stretch her legs (she'd never ask, so instead I call it a "Powder Room Break"), I have the choice of a McDonald's, Burger King, or Wendy's. I haven't set foot inside one of these places in years. Not since the kids were small and we had to use Happy Meals as bribery. We pull over and she slides out of the car and into the grass near the picnic table where she can do a few exercises. I can tell by the way that she winces that she needs the break far more than I do.

The stop just south of Columbus is a little more tense with Santana whipping me one of those sour glares that I swear must come from her abuela (her father's side, naturally). I'm only able to force her on a slow march for about five minutes before she's ambling back into the car and glaring at me to turn the ignition. I want to smile at her and pinch her cheeks because it's that same glare she used to get when Ronaldo would tell her to finish her vegetables at the dinner table.

There's a cute little antique store in Londonderry, which is about thirty minutes from Jackson, but I can only get through about half of my argument for making a quick shopping escape before Santana just cuts me off. Her mother. Cuts _her mother_ off. The _motherly_ thing would have been to scream "Do you want me to stop this car?," snap back at her, remind her of who's really in charge, yadda yadda. But we've been at this since March - bickering as though lives were made in the mix. Maybe Santana's putting up such a fight because it's all she has now. I think that's why I've been letting her win so many of these arguments. We drive right past the Londonderry exit and on to Jackson, even though I can almost hear her wince in pain every few miles or so.

The University of Southern Ohio wouldn't necessarily have been my first choice. It's in the middle of podunk Jackson, Ohio. Some of the buildings have a beautiful Classical feel to them, right down to the ivy straining over the brick. But other buildings look like they've been haphazardly erected at the edges of the campus in whatever architectural style was most convenient at the time. Most likely it's the result of rapid campus growth as USO's sports teams climbed higher and higher in the rankings. There's something about Ohio and sports that I'll never understand.

We drive past the Knights Coliseum and I hear Santana suck in her breath. She hasn't stepped into that building since February 23rd and I want to hold her little hand right now and tell her that she'll be back soon enough. I want to kiss her forehead, like I did all those hot Lima nights, where even with the air conditioning on full blast a little bead of sweat would trickle down her brow. But, she is her father's daughter. I keep my hands on the wheel and my eyes on the road.

/

"Santana!" _Dios_ does my voice carry in this godforsaken place. Linoleum floors, matte white walls, mattress covers over twin beds that crinkle when you sit on them. I just know there is some sort of insect egg somewhere in this building.

"Santana Maria!" I'm almost ready to flip into the Spanish that my daughter will only mildly understand save for the curse words that her older cousins taught her so long ago.

As soon as we'd arrived outside her room, she'd sprung out of the car with a heavy box in hand. Well "sprung" is an overstatement, she doesn't do anything quickly these days. But I was shocked to see her move as quickly as she did. I suppose three hours in the car with your mother will do that to a girl.

Nevertheless, we've hired movers for this occasion. I certainly won't be carrying any boxes with these heels on. These are Louboutin's, a gift I gave myself for getting all of my children into college. Besides, Ronaldo has already paid for the movers and Santana's under express orders not to push it too much.

She'd pushed it enough at home anyway. Often to the point of a fight. When she'd had to move back home, every day was a fight. Not just with me, but I sure didn't make things easy on her, either. Gradually, after a few months, our exchanges became less heated, huffs softened to a whimper, and the ache in her jaw and tendons released as she unclenched fists and teeth. Just like when she was my little _nina._ I'm sure she would have stomped around too, if she could have.

But as we got closer to move-in day, tempers flared again, fists and jaws clenched once more, and her brow furrowed and furrowed and furrowed until I worried it would stay that way. (Come on, every parent has to use that joke once in a while.)

Now, in the middle of...what is this place? Humboldt Hall. Now in the middle of Humboldt Hall, I'm clicking and clacking and wearing these Louboutin's out because my daughter wants to start up this fight again.

She doesn't do much "delicately," but I'd call the way she's sitting at her desk chair "delicate." That's only in the sense that a true comfy slouch would do her in completely and set her back weeks. So, she's delicately sitting at her generic dorm room desk with that box she grabbed from the car before I could stop her and she looks completely broken already.

"_Mija_, baby, what are you doing?" I don't have much fight left in me. It's been six months. I'm tired. Not more tired than her. But still, tired.

She doesn't answer and I can see her nostrils flaring like she wants to get up and go get another box, but I'm standing in her way. Her mother, always in the way.

"This room won't do," I blurt, before fully forming the thought.

Even by Santana's standards, it won't do. We came prepared to replace a few things that we just knew wouldn't work. I just didn't expect _so_ much of the room not to work. The mattress will have to be replaced. Too rigid. That desk chair that she can barely sit in will have to be replaced. Maybe something on wheels to help her get around a little bit better. Definitely something with some more cushions. (Not to mention it's ugly as sin, but that's probably of no matter to her.)

At least she should be able to get around in this place. She wouldn't do it, but I made sure to place a call to the Housing Office in June to get her into a first floor room. Stairs and Santana have not been a good combination in Lima. For the first few months, she lived on a cot in the living room. A comfy cot, but a cot nonetheless. A cot was far superior to climbing flights of stairs up and down for the bathroom, for breakfast, for a nap, for lunch, and on and on. That was a quick lesson learned.

"When do the movers come?" I hear her sigh and nearly erase the mental list I'm making of the things we'll need to order or pick up before I leave town.

"Any minute. Your father set it up. Soon as they get here we'll go out for lunch and get out of their way. Ok, mija?" And like magic my phone rings. Ronaldo works magic.

/

I think she wants to be at this dining hall just as much as I do. Even in college I didn't eat in a dining hall. I settle her in with a tray of things she's picked out on our walk back to the tables and booths. Typical Santana: spaghetti with meat sauce, french fries, and a few slices of roast beef (from a carving station! Can you believe it? A carving station in a dining hall?). Not a green thing on her plate.

On my return, I head directly to the salad bar. She's got an ungodly metabolism and must produce a gallon of sweat on an off-day. At just shy of fifty for the third year running, I can't afford to eat the crap she eats. And if I'm going to, that crap is going to be gourmet crap from the finest crappery in Manhattan. A dining hall can't screw up a salad though.

She's halfway through her spaghetti by the time I get back.

"Good?"

"Doesn't matter, really."

There have been so many responses like this over the past six months. Responses that make me think maybe we should take her to see someone. Responses that make me wonder if she still has hope. Responses that remind me of her tear-filled eyes hidden under bushy bangs the day she came home from sixth grade and saw her father and me sitting on the couch waiting so that we could tell her about her abuela.

"Well I'm sure those french fries will be good. Deep fried and oh-so-delicious." I give her a little wink when she looks up at me and she can't help but give me back a shy smile in return, even if it is just to appease me.

"You gonna talk to coach soon?"

"Yeah, this afternoon. She said to call her when we got in."

"Did you call her? I didn't see you on the phone." It's almost an accusation. I fight to keep that tone out of my voice, but it's _de rigueur _these days with her.

"Relax, mom. I texted her," she fights back.

"Don't tell your mother to relax, Santana." I can't help it. I really can't. "I've lived too long on this Earth to have my children tell me what I can and can't feel. Don't ever tell your mother to relax."

I can see her lip quiver, like she wants to whine _Relaaaax_ again. Maybe she's finally learned because she just takes another stab at the spaghetti and whips it around her fork until there's a tiny spray of sauce on her t-shirt that she doesn't even notice. _Dios_, _mi hija_.

Across the cafeteria, I see a familiar face - Quinn Fabray. Quinn's known my Santana since her freshman year, when they started playing basketball together. From what I gather, Quinn's not terribly good at it. (My gathering technique mainly includes watching games. Since Quinn never plays, I can only assume she's not very good.) But she's been a good friend to Santana. Even visited in Lima a few times in the last six months. The only teammate to visit Lima in the last six months, actually.

"What's up, Santana? Hi, Mrs. Lopez." Such a pretty girl with those gorgeous hazel eyes.

Santana just jerks her head up in some sort of young person's nod that must mean "How are you" or something. Frankly, it looks ridiculous, but that is certainly not the fight I'm going to put up this afternoon.

"Quinn, it's lovely to see you. Come sit down, please. I'm going to excuse myself to the restroom for a moment."

"Oh no, I don't mean to intrude, really. I just wanted to come say hi." This girl has always been so polite. I wish she'd rub off on Santana in that way.

"I insist, Quinn. I'll be right back, just a little powder room break." I nearly leave my Michael Kors buried in the seam of the booth, god forbid. A girl can't freshen up without her purse.

I want to give them plenty of privacy, so I sit down in the bathroom and pull out my phone to see if Ronaldo has texted. I don't think Santana has ever said anything about Quinn being a...romantic interest. I think something like that would stick in my mind. She is the only girl that Santana has brought home through all of college, though. Maybe she's not ready to tell us yet or something.

She only came out to us in her sophomore year, a little over a year ago. It was one of those things that a parent like me dreads, but not because I'm a terrible homophobe or something. I suppose things are changing, but I didn't know anyone who was a gay or a lesbian until maybe ten years ago. I certainly didn't know any in college. Ronaldo reminded me once that I probably knew one or two but they just didn't tell me. Either way, I would imagine I didn't know any or they didn't tell me because it was a frightening time. It was practically illegal and in some states during that time it was _definitely _illegal. I suppose it surprised me and it made me worry for her. But for someone who both loves and fights fiercely, I only love my daughter more and will only fight harder for her.

I wouldn't mind Santana taking up with Quinn. She's a beautiful little girl. A little WASPy for my taste, but those are the types of kids Santana grew up around. No _barrio_ in Lima, Ohio. Talented. Maybe not terribly talented in basketball, but good enough to sit on the bench and practice aside Santana. Definitely smart as a whip. When she visited in...what was it, May or June, sometime in there...she always had a book in hand. _Les Miserables_ written _en francais_ was pretty impressive. I had to show off my own French major skills for her. Take her down a few levels. But she kept up pretty well for the first ten minutes or so before she had to cut me off in English and praise me. A lady loves her compliments.

No, I wouldn't mind if Santana ended up with Quinn. Might do her some good. A mother's curiosity - that does no good. But I can't help but want to sneak back out to a corner of the dining hall and spy on their conversation. I've got myself all worked up thinking about Santana's secret affair with Quinn that I'm hoping isn't just a figment of my imagination the more I dwell on it.

Quinn has pulled up a chair to sit at the edge of the booth. Her back is to me, so I can't read her expression. Santana's fidgeting. Probably time for her to move around a little. Stretch out. We've been here..._Dios_...almost an hour. The movers said they'd be done in an hour and a half.

Patience was never one of my virtues. In my two minutes of spying I've managed to notice Quinn's back, Santana's fidgeting, and the dwindling time as I make my way back to the booth.

"So coach visited yet?"

I pull my phone from my pocket so that I can seem uninterested in their conversation. That should keep them going.

"No, this afternoon." Santana still has that ridiculous spaghetti stain on her shirt.

"What do you think you guys will talk about?"

"Guess the season. When she called last week we talked a little bit about strategies. You know she wants to use Chang as the replacement shooting guard? Unless Chang has learned to release her jump shot at the top, she's gonna get stuffed nine times outta ten."

"Eh, I think that extra playing time after...you know...I think that helped. She scored her season high at the end of the season. I think it was something like 25 points."

"Against who though?" Santana says, and I can hear that devious smirk behind her comment. She's her mother's daughter, too.

"Whatever." It sounds like Quinn's smiling, too. "What else you talk about?"

"Just other basketball stuff - my role when I'm back, you know."

"Your role?" Quinn asks with a hint of incredulousness in her voice. My ears perk up at this, too. Santana couldn't _walk_ four months ago. Literally, couldn't walk.

"Yeah." The tone in Quinn's voice just rolls off her back. "Thinking I should be back by mid-year. Maybe not starting right away, but definitely by playoffs. Just up to the team to get us into the playoffs."

"I don't mean to be a downer, but is that do-able?" Good Quinn. Exactly my thoughts, too. I keep my eyes on the screen and remind myself to stay out of it.

"Well she mentioned this recovery plan that she's set up. She said over the phone before I left that she's lined up a doctor for me to work with. Some Dr. Shuester guy. Apparently he's at the hospital, not at SportsMed. I'd never heard of him either." And every-so-often, in moments like this, I'm reminded of why Ronaldo convinced me not to take Santana to see a therapist. The life is back in her movements and speech and hope has sprung and my baby is my baby. A little extra color even pops into her cheeks.

"Yeah, I've never heard of him. Sounds promising that he's at the hospital though. It's pretty state-of-the-art over there. I did my internship there last year." I want to look up and see if Quinn's got some special glint in her eye that's just for my Santana, but that would ruin everything. This never would have happened two or three years ago. I would never be allowed to sit and just listen in to my child's conversation with a friend or a potential lover.

"I remember, yeah. If it's not too much, think you might be able to drive me to some of the sessions?" Shut. It. Down. Did my daughter just ask for someone's help? I need to check my pulse. Or stand up to feel if the Earth is still spinning. My daughter, Santana Lopez, just asked for someone's help. Maybe she will survive this year in college. Now, I'm fighting even harder not to cry. They'd definitely stop talking if they saw me crying.

"Of course. I'm not too far away. I got that one bedroom just off of Birch Street that I was looking at last year."

"Yeah I remember you texted me some pictures of the place. I'm super jealous, Quinn. You're gonna have so much fun there." There's sadness just below the surface of her voice and I wonder if Quinn hears it yet.

"You are, too, S. You can come over any time. We can go out...and grab dinner on Main Street." I wonder if that pause has anything to do with dating? Maybe the rest of the sentence was supposed to be "on a date"?

"I just wish that I was living down there with you, too." That sounds a little fresh to me. Even Ronaldo and I didn't live together in college. I wonder if I need to have a talk with her about dating etiquette.

"Anytime you want to come over, just come over." I'm ready to see Santana reach across the table and grab Quinn's hand. Maybe stroke her fingers across her palm like Ronaldo used to do for me. (I guess he still does it sometimes, but there's nothing like the beginning of a relationship.) I'm too vested in this already.

"Yeah, ok, I will." She turns to me. Caught red-handed? I scrunch my eyebrows a little, making a more conscious effort to stare busily at my phone. "Mom, think the movers are done yet?"

"Probably," I return, glancing at my watch. Quinn pushes her chair back from the table to stand.

"Whenever you need a ride, S, just call me, ok? Better and faster than the bus, I promise." She winks at Santana and I want to look over at my baby and grab her hand and tell her to hold on to this one, but I know she'd snap at me and call me all sorts of names.

"Mrs. Lopez, it was nice seeing you." So polite.

"You too, Quinn. Have a good school year."

She smiles at us before she turns to go.

"Quinn's nice."

"You've said that before, mom," Santana just sort of breathes out as she pulls herself up from the table. We pause there for a moment as Santana fully stretches her leg and grabs the cane from its position against the wall.

"I know, I'm just saying." A reminder that a girl's nice is maybe all she needs. I don't know. She's never brought anyone home and I wouldn't mind having an extra mouth to feed now that the boys are out of the house. Lord knows they're not bringing anyone home anytime soon, or they better not.

"We're not dating, mom. She's just a friend."

"Well sometimes friends become more."

"And sometimes they don't. Drop it." That's that.

/

"This is the last of it Mrs. Lopez," he says. 'The last of it' is the shower chair. Santana didn't want to bring it. It had been our worst fight in the last two months. She wouldn't say why, but I knew. Her _abuela_ had had a shower chair when she was at the home. It meant helplessness. It meant the unrelenting despair of the past six months. It meant bone crushing pain. But we wouldn't let her leave it at home. That would be too risky for a girl with her injury living by herself. Ronaldo was by my side for this one. It was one of those times that Dr. Lopez played the role of father for his little girl instead of physician. The chair went on the 'to pack' list and Santana didn't speak to us for a week.

We unpack most of the boxes silently. She gives me a few directions about what things to place where. I see her get around more than I've seen her move in the last week put together. I want to say something. I want to tell her to sit down and let me do it. Just this once, let her mother just do something for her. But I don't want to fight before I leave.

Her basketball posters and pictures hang above her bed. A stack of books is on the bookshelf that's been pulled between her bed and her desk. The mini-fridge is stocked with some type of orange sports drink that she claims has something called 'electrolytes.' And I'm sad because it's my time to go.

I'm not sad, I'm terrified.

I've seen her every day for the last six months. I've cared for her when she couldn't care for herself. I've listened to her cry late at night and I've run my fingers through her hair and massaged her scalp, just like when she was a baby. And I'm crying now because who will do that when I'm gone and she's all alone in this room? I don't want to leave her alone.

I'm more scared to leave her than I was when when we were doing this at eighteen and she was crying because she didn't know how to get to her first class. I'm more scared than I was when she was born. My first baby. All messy black hair and shrill screams that could only be soothed with "_Duermete, Nino Lindo_" and a little breast milk. _Mi hermosa hija._

"Mom, I'll be ok." Her voice is soft like she's not sure and she's looking at me with those dark brown eyes that her father gave to all of our children.

"I know, baby," I say through the tears. But I don't know. I hate lying to her, but this feels like one of those times that I have to for both our sakes. I curse Ronaldo because he left me to do this all alone. Always work with Ronaldo. And now I have to make the three hour drive home alone through tears and prayers.

"I'll call you. Every night." I can't believe it. It actually makes me want to laugh. Santana has probably called home fewer than ten times in the last three years of college. 'Every night' feels like a gift from heaven.

"Every night _nina?_" Milk it.

She leans in to me and I never want to let go. "Every night," she whispers against my chest and I feel her breathe heavy and deep.

"I love you so much, Santana. You are so strong." Just like her father.

"Mom, don't." She says through a sob. Maybe too strong. Just like her father. I breathe her in and say a prayer.


	2. Quinn

**Chapter 2 - Quinn**

_August 30, 2015_

Santana's always wanted to take a class with me. Well, maybe not always. Since the middle of freshman year, I guess.

Our relationship is complicated. Completely. Somehow, at the beginning of freshman year, I was a threat to Santana Lopez. _The_ Santana Lopez of Ohio basketball royalty. She didn't remember when I brought it up last year, but we'd played each other in high school - I was at Carmel and she at McKinley. She'd scored well over thirty points and despite our state ranking, we'd been blown out. She didn't know it at the time, but I always knew I would never threaten her.

At least not on the court. I guess she realized that pretty early on. I remember she'd laid one in over me on a fast break. I was trying so hard to slap the ball out of her hand that I dove. And fell with a resounding thump. I remember looking up from the court at her hand stretched out in front of me. I reached out to grab it in mine and pull myself up. I remember being on that floor and thinking, "has Santana Lopez gone soft?" But right was quickly restored in the world as she swiped her hand back and yelled, "In your face, Fabray!" (And, despite my protestations, earned us twenty suicides for unsportsmanlike behavior.)

Unlike fraternity hazing, that event did not bring us together. Rather, it solidified for her that she was better than me at basketball - something I already knew.

But the competition continued off the court. We vied for attention in every domain. Academics - I won. (I was the valedictorian of my high school.) Favor from coach - she won. (Hard not to win as a two-time McDonald's All-American.) Compliments on fashion - I won. (It was close.) Strength training - she won. (Like I said, McDonald's All-American.)

Male attention was the one domain where no one won. But boy did we fight hard. I'd be out at a frat party, vying for a senior's attention so that I could get a mixed drink rather than a foamy beer from the keg. I'd have on my sweetest, most innocent sundress. Something that traveled just a little too high up the thigh for classes, but wasn't so slutty that I'd lose any esteem as a result. Then she'd come storming in all dark lipstick, skin-tight jeans, and sex.

It was rare that we'd set our sights on the same boy, luckily. I sought out the collared, well-groomed boys who wouldn't let their stubble last for more than a few days. Santana...well, Santana's type was more difficult to categorize. Some nights it'd be one of those buff guys from the wrestling team who'd rip his shirt off in rage or glee during a game of beer pong. Other nights, she'd be lost in the arms of guys who looked more like the disgusting slobs from that old movie my mom showed me, "Animal House."

What took our relationship to new ground, though - what really allowed us to become friends - was who I caught her with in late January, just after our first round of rivalry week against Ohio State. It was at Phi Kap. The team had partied there before. They had great parties. Usually tons of people from all over campus. Loud, heart-stopping dance music. The third-rate keg beer instead of the fourth-rate (we're talking Natural Light vs. Milwaukee's Best).

I was on the dance floor rubbing up against Chris, who turned out to be my first boyfriend in college. (Let's be honest, at frat parties there is no "dancing," it's just "rubbing." It disgusts me to think that I'd allowed myself to go so low in freshman year.) I'd sent him off to do my bidding - fetch me a water bottle and another beer. As I leaned up against the wall and looked into the throng of dancers I noticed Santana, completely drunk and sucking face with a girl.

I'm not a prude. Really, I'm not. Everyone thinks I am. In high school maybe I was, but I'm not anymore. And I wasn't then either. But I'd never really known any lesbians. Or even any girls who'd kissed other girls.

Before I could stop myself from staring, I saw her break from the kiss, make eye contact with me, give me a grimace, and walk straight out the door.

She pulled me into one of the private rooms at study hall the next day.

"You can't tell anyone." I expected it to sound angry. That was Santana's M.O. She wasn't angry. It was hushed and there was a tremble there, almost unrecognizable given who was speaking.

"I won't," I whispered back, as though we weren't the only two people in the room.

"Promise?"

"Yeah," I nodded.

I didn't really expect much to change, but from that day forward she began talking to me like a human being. I let down my guard and we actually got to know each other. I learned that she'd played soccer against my sister when they were both in elementary school. She learned that despite my "complete nerd stature" (as she put it), I could actually play beer pong pretty well. I would like to attribute our joint skills to Coach Sylvester's endless shooting drills.

We also learned that we'd probably never take a single class with one another through our entire time at USO. Santana was a history major. While I love books, I find them to be more a leisure material. I don't need a professor to tell me what a book means or how the flower symbolizes a woman's anatomy or something. Biology was my path. History and biology would never overlap. "Unless," Santana used to say, "you get that bio crap out of the way enough to take a gut class with me." She'd ramble off the latest list of crap classes: Vampire Lit, The Rise of Pop Music, The Philosophy of Star Trek, Zombies in Pop Culture. Somehow she was always up on the latest in the course catalog.

She always wanted me to, but I really hadn't planned on taking a class with her ever. I was too focused on bio and medical school. I would have preferred an internship or another pre-med course to anything she could offer.

The accident changed all that.

/

"You get all the books for this class yet, Q?" At noon, the cafeteria is at its prime. It helps to be on the nationally-ranked women's basketball team, but it helps even more to be friends with Santana Lopez. The crowd in front of the "Mexican Bar" disperses as Santana canes her way to the front.

"Yeah, you don't?" There's a pre-course assignment due today. It's a ridiculous scholarly article on logic and television courtrooms (yes, we're talking about logos and Judge Judy), but it's still due today.

She puts a plate of tacos on my tray and we slowly amble to the deli line.

"Wanna share some books? I don't really feel like spending a bunch of money on books I probably won't read anyway."

"Santana, just because the title of the course is 'Themes in Pop Culture' doesn't mean the professor's going to gift you with an 'A.'"

"Whatever, Q." A basket of fries appears on the tray alongside my sandwich. "You don't even know 'bout me and these professors. Bitches love me."

"Well I know that," I retort with a wink.

"You know, bitches _and_ professors love me."

Just like the crowds around the food disappear, so too do the crowds around the tables. Amid the swarms of undergrads in the cafeteria, a prime booth opens just for us. When I was here yesterday, I ate my veggie wrap standing up in the corner of the first dining room. Bitches do love Santana.

Almost as soon as we sit down my phone rings. I can't right now.

"Who was that?"

"Didn't recognize the number."

We eat in silence for a little while. This is really the pinnacle, isn't it? I'll never have another year of college. I'll never play basketball at this level again. Who knows where I'll be? At a med school somewhere, fingers crossed. Who knows where Santana will be? A year ago, I would have had about two hundred answers and they'd all be true: in the WNBA, atop the gold medal podium at the Olympics, at the ESPY awards, shooting a commercial with LeBron, on the front cover of Sports Illustrated. Now, it feels like I'm just as likely as she is to make that future a reality.

"How were your first classes yesterday?" I ask as she hoovers her second taco.

A shred of lettuce hangs out of her mouth before she pulls it in with her tongue. Gross. "I think they'll be ok. Stacked. I had four classes yesterday and three today. Gotta make up."

The accident didn't just throw off basketball. She'd had to withdraw from all of her courses in second semester last year. She's always been a decent student, if a little apathetic. This semester she has to be better than decent and certainly can't afford to be apathetic.

She cradles the remains of the second taco in her hand as she elaborates. "Only one that looks tough is the World History class, and that's only because I don't know much about it. I'll actually have to do some of the reading I think. And it's got like five papers."

"Santana Lopez writes papers?" I chide.

"Santana Lopez writes papers so she doesn't have to take tests, slut." As though to mark the end of that conversation, she shoves the rest of the taco in her mouth and grins.

I can only shake my head and smile back at her.

Just then, my phone buzzes in my lap.

_You talk?_

I want to ignore it, but if I do I might get another phone call.

_Not now. With Santana. _I type back as quickly as possible.

"Who's that?" Not stealthy enough.

"Just Tina. She wanted to see if I'd be up for a workout this afternoon."

"What'd you say?"

"That I've got a busy schedule."

"Don't tell me you're actually friends with Girl Chang." Ugh, Santana's nicknames are so offensive.

"We're not _not _friends."

"Whatever. Ready to go?"

"We've still got like twenty minutes before class starts." Seriously, Gordon Hall is only two buildings over. I don't even think you need to go outside if you don't want to.

Santana's face gets darker and the grin disappears. "Look, it's gonna take me a while, ok? I can just meet you over there."

"No. Sorry. It's fine. Let's go."

/

I had no idea. Really. For someone who's so interested in medicine, you'd have assumed I'd thought about this more. Twenty minutes was an undershot. We got to the class ten minutes late and with a long, angry stare from the professor. (Which, I mean, come on. You teach a class on pop culture. No one is living or dying by this stuff here.)

For every set of stairs that I was ready to bound up, starting with the stairs that led from the dining hall to the first floor outdoor terrace, Santana grasped the handrail and used nearly all of her body strength to pull herself up. By the time we got to the second set of stairs, there was a clear line of sweat soaking through the back of her shirt and collecting at her brow. By the time we got to the third set of stairs, I was following her, worried that she'd lose strength I'd need to catch her and boost her back upright.

At the fourth set she glared at me and I cursed Thomas Worthington's layout of this ridiculous suburban campus. We'd skipped those stairs, but had to walk out of our way for about a quarter mile to come upon the ramp that would lead into Gordon Hall.

If I didn't think I'd get punched outright, I would have suggested one of those motorized scooters. Shoot, I'd have even hopped on the back of the stupid thing.

At least the class wasn't so bad once we'd gotten settled in. I can't complain too much about a syllabus that includes having to read _Seventeen _magazine and watch episodes of _Friends_.

Also a positive: the walk from Gordon Hall back to her room took about ten minutes and involved zero flights of stairs. I didn't think Santana was this smart, but somehow she got herself a decent set up on the first floor of her dorm. And, it's pretty clear that Mrs. Lopez did the interior design and arranging. When I was living in on-campus housing, I never had my own adjustable mattress, leather wheelie chair, flatscreen television, or window air conditioning unit. She is a little bit of a brat.

"So you ready for PT today?" I ask, as she settles into her desk chair. I'm not surprised, but she looks completely exhausted.

"Yeah, no problem. Back in action in no time, Fabray." She says a pathetically with a knowing grin on her face.

Santana Lopez doesn't give up. I've seen her dive into the stats table courtside in order to save a ball from going out of bounds when the team is down twenty points. I've seen her rip the ball out of the hands of a 250 pound center from Miami. I've seen her stand on her tiptoes and go nose-to-nose with a wrestler who called me a "slut." She's a fighter.

So who is this?

"Ok, well, I'll pick you up at 6:45. Sure you don't want me to stay?"

"Yeah. Later."

/

The physical therapy section of the hospital is much bigger than I expected. Like rooms upon rooms upon rooms. I guess I hadn't quite considered just how many people need physical therapy. There are grandfathers with arthritis pains and amputees who need to learn how to use their new limbs, old women recovering from hip fractures and little kids strengthening and stretching broken elbows.

We find Dr. Shuester's office pretty quickly. Santana seems to have recovered from the afternoon's struggles and I only have to slow my pace slightly.

"The famous Santana Lopez!" This curly-haired bozo is actually elated to see Santana and I can tell right away that she's not going to like him.

She nods and tests out a smile, like she wants to give him a chance.

I'm sure coach would not be pleased to hear that Santana had fired her physical therapist in one day flat.

"And?" He turns and looks at me after shaking her hand. Of course he doesn't recognize me. I'm used to it, I guess. I'll still probably make more money than Santana, what with the shabby state of professional women's basketball and how cheap an endorsement deal she'll be. My smarts beat her skill any day.

"Quinn Fabray, I'm Santana's friend. And ride."

"Well Quinn, thanks for delivering our Santana! If you're going to stick around, we have a little waiting area over there." He points me to a glass-enclosed office at the corner of the room that houses a few chairs and a desk. "Brittany should be right back and can get you settled back there."

I give Santana a quick 'good luck' glance before I head to the office. She probably thinks I'm just looking at her funny.

The good thing about the office is that I can hear everything that's happening. The bad thing about the office is that I can hear everything that's happening. I stuff the journal article back into my bag after a few minutes and decide to devote my full attention to the conversation just outside.

"So the records your former doctor provided us with give some insight into how we'll be treating and rehabilitating you, Santana." I head Dr. Shuester lilt. "What I'm going to do is go back through these records with you. If something doesn't sound quite right, or if there's any commentary you have, let me know. That information can help us set the best plan for you."

A blonde who I can only assume is Brittany comes back into the office. For a half a second I think about pulling my journal article back out just to look busy but I think I've been caught red handed. Quinn Fabray - amateur eavesdropper.

"Ma'am, would you like a magazine or something to drink while you wait?"

"A magazine would be great, actually. Anything." Hope I don't sound too desperate. I'd just hate to be tossed out into the hallway for violating patient confidentiality or something.

She walks away and I can't help but stare. I'm not that into that kind of thing, if you know what I mean, but that doesn't stop me from appreciating a women's body. I'd kill to have a body like that. I play college basketball and I'll never be that way. All legs and midriff and long, lean muscle. She looks like a yoga instructor, or pilates or something. Maybe that's what I'll do this fall when I don't have to go to strength training and team workouts.

"First thing's first, Santana. The official injury is subtrochanteric femur fracture. Is that correct?"

I turn a little so that I can see Santana and Dr. Shuester out of the corner of my eye. She's sitting on top of an exam table, he's on a short stool with a clipboard in his lap.

"Yes." The doctor checks something on his clipboard.

"Resulting from a high-speed car accident, correct?"

"Yes." Another check.

"Now it says here that surgery occurred within twenty-four hours. An intramedullary rod was inserted, along with screws above and below the fracture. Is that correct?"

"Yes...uh...I don't remember what they named the rod, but the doctor said something about it coming out?"

"It's a possibility, but that's not something that would happen prior to your full recovery unless it causes you extreme pain. Does the rod itself cause pain?"

"No. No. I mean, I don't think so. I was just wondering."

"Okay. Well I'll put that in my notes as something for us to talk about down the road."

I almost don't notice when the blonde approaches again. I never really got the intimate details of Santana's injury and I'm pre-med. I didn't want to pry and ask her twenty questions about the most life-altering event that she's ever experienced. She probably wouldn't have answered my questions anyway. But I can't help but listen in now.

"I brought you a few magazines," the blonde says before spreading out a few fitness magazines, a physical therapist trade magazine, and a celebrity magazine. I'm probably not going to read much, but I want to look busy. I pick up the celebrity magazine and begin thumbing through it before tuning back into the doctor's conversation with Santana. Brittany takes a seat at the desk.

"...haven't noticed any pain from that. Just when I'm sitting for a long time, usually."

"Noted. Thank you."

"Now let's talk about the rehabilitation you've been through so far." I can hear the doctor flip through a few pages in his notes. The waxy paper on top of the examining table crinkles as Santana shifts around.

"There was no weight-bearing in the first six weeks. During this time were you completely bed-ridden?"

"Seemed like it, yeah. After the hospital released me, we set up a PT appointment. I was in bed for about a week, and then went to PT. After that, I had PT every week or so. I think the only times I really got up were when I went to PT, went to the bathroom, or did my exercises."

"What kinds of exercises did you do in those first few weeks?"

"I don't even know if those exercises helped, Dr. Schuester. They wouldn't let me do any real stuff until they said that the tissue had healed. It was mainly stretching stuff. Still hurt."

"That sounds about right. So once the tissue healed, tell me a little bit about how your rehabilitation plan changed."

"Once it healed, I was allowed to use crutches. No weight-bearing, they said, for a few more weeks, but I could at least get around a bit. I'd have to rest a lot. And sometimes the blood would feel like it's all rushing to my foot."

"Typical feeling. That's ok."

"Then, a few months ago, they had me start some real exercises. A lot of it was just the kind of stuff to make sure that I could use my walker or the crutches without falling on my face. Still a lot of stretching."

"Do any pool work?"

"Yeah, some. Maybe once a week. And then once or twice a week at the PT office stretching, bending, standing, that kind of stuff."

"Ok. We're going to need to get in the pool to start probably. Here's what I'd like to do, Santana: we're going to take some x-rays, I'll look over them, I'll talk with Brittany, and then we'll set up a plan for your rehabilitation. Sound good?"

I don't hear her answer, but I assume it sounds good.

"Brittany," Dr. Shuester's voice calls from the main room. She bumps her hip hard against the edge of her desk as she quickly paces out of the office.

My phone buzzes again before I can peek out to check on Santana. Sometimes, I've noticed, when she sits in one place for too long, her face gets a little ashen and she looks like she's about to throw up.

"Hey," I whisper, glancing up to check on Santana. "I still can't talk. Santana's just in the other room. Look, I'll be home after I drop her off. I'll call you then. _Please_ don't call back. No, I'm not mad, just don't call back.'"

I probably could have taken the call that time, especially since she's too busy to listen in on my conversation, but I can't have her suspecting anything. I don't know how I'll ever break this to her and a small part of me (or maybe even a big part) hopes it will end before I have to say anything at all.

When I hang up and turn back around, Dr. Shuester and Santana have disappeared and I see Brittany pulling a few thick medical books off a shelf in the opposite corner of the room.

"Where'd they go?" I call to her, twisted around in my chair to figure out what she's doing.

"X-ray. She'll be back in a few minutes." She takes a book and starts copying a few things onto a chart.

"Oh."

"It's really sweet of you to wait for her."

I don't want this girl to get the wrong impression. Santana's gorgeous and all, but, like I said, I'm not that into that. "Yeah, she's probably one of my best friends," I reply, with a little added emphasis.

She looks up from her book at me, scrutinizing me, and I can't help but wonder what she's actually thinking. Her eyes are turned up and the sharpest blue I've seen in a while and I, Quinn Fabray, actually feel uncomfortable under the gaze of another girl. I'm usually the one doing that to girls, not the other way around.

"Sorry," she says as she smiles at me. "I just...you look familiar."

"Well, we both play on the basketbal teaml."

"Yeah...I mean...I knew that...maybe my mind's just making things up again."

Weird. We smile at each other and I'm trying to give one of those fake smiles that you give people to show them that you're kind of done with the conversation. When she looks back in her book, I take it as the go-ahead to look back at the magazine that I've been idly cradling in my lap for the last thirty minutes.

I tap out a few texts, flip through pages of Taylor Swift and Channing Tatum, think about grabbing my journal article and then think better and then rethink it. By the time I've decided to actually pull the article out, Santana's back and looking a little more healthy after a walk down to x-ray and back.

Dr. Shuester puts the x-rays up against the light box and I am drawn to it like a moth to flame (or a pre-med to anything that could potentially give me a leg up at getting into medical school). When he sees me gaping from the waiting room he gives a little smile and then shuts off the light box and sits back down with Santana.

"Santana, I'd like to introduce you to Brittany, who will do much of your rehabilitation. She does the dirty work, so to speak." He gives a chuckle that makes me feel a little sick to my stomach.

Brittany pops back up out of some unseen corner of the room and almost immediately, it sounds like Santana's choking on a piece of gum she sucked down her windpipe. She did this after lunch the other day and I was afraid she was going to die just before she choked out 'water' in a hoarse voice.

I grab a little cone cup full of water and before her hand's even fully wrapped around the cup, her head is tilted back and she's gulping it down.

Pathetic. Hilarious. Maybe a little sad. Maybe. There was a time in freshman year when the sight of Santana Lopez choking on air would not have spurred me into any kind of action. Sure, I'll help her now, but that bitch inside of me can't help but smirk a little.

"Are you ok? You need more?" Brittany asks with concern in her eyes as she leans over Santana. Santana looks at me, then the ground as she shakes her head.

"You sure?" Dr. Shuester asks.

Eyes on me, then the floor again. She nods.

"Ok," Dr. Shuester draws out slowly, as if Santana's suddenly going to rethink things and demand water. "Well, where was I?"

I stand my ground and put my hand on the examination table just behind where Santana's perched. Brittany goofily raises her eyebrows and then her right hand like a kindergarten student.

"Oh right, Brittany. Like I was saying, Santana, you'll mainly be working with Brittany. She leads most of our patients through their exercises and monitors day-to-day progress."

I look over at Brittany and give another little smile. It's only polite. This is like her official introduction. Santana, though, well, Santana is another story. It's almost comical how terrible Santana looks. Like one of those cartoons where you can read 'miserable,' or 'dumbstruck,' or 'stunned' written all over its face. Actually I can't tell if it's nerves or pain. Maybe some combination. She does look pretty pale.

Dr. Shuester just continues on. "So here's the plan, Santana. Your x-rays look like they're where they should be for a patient recovering from your type of injury. Problem is, we're under strict orders by Coach Sylvester to get you on the fast track. I'm under the impression that you want that, too?"

Dumbstruck. Whatever. I spring into action. "Yeah, that's all she can talk about," I add, since Santana won't.

I see her nod after I speak.

"So we're going to start in a couple days. Four times a week. Initially, three days a week will be pool workouts. We'll use the rehabilitation pool on site. These pool workouts will help reduce some of the swelling that you've got going on, we'll work at delaying the muscle atrophy that's happening in your quads and glutes. If we get to a good point, we may actually work on rebuilding some of the muscle that has already atrophied. Sound good?"

We both nod at the same time. Even Brittany's nodding and kind of nervously looking at Santana, who still just stares ahead. Only Dr. Shuester doesn't seem concerned.

"One day a week, you'll be here in the office where we'll work on some stretching and some floor exercises. We'll probably start slow with these exercises because there's a little less room for error than in the pool. Some standing, some walking, start to go from there. That good?"

Another nod.

/

I get my last words in as the hospital doors glide open ahead of us.

"Listen, S, were you ok in there? You just kind of froze up at the end. I was worried about you. I mean, we were in a hospital, so I could only be but so worried. If something was really wrong then..."

"Fine, Quinn," she interrupts. "Just take me home. 'm tired."

The ten minute ride back to her room is silent and painful. Even after moving around and getting a little fresh air, the paleness has set in on her face. It's not like the times that she's just needed to stretch from sitting too long.

I know that asking if she's ok again is the wrong move. It's like asking someone if they're angry at you. If you have to ask, you should already know.

Something's wrong.

If I had to guess, it's fear. Santana Lopez isn't supposed to fear anything. Two-time McDonald's All-American. Big Ten Freshman of the Year. All-American her sophomore year, the youngest in USO history. She lays it up over six and a half foot forwards and boxes out 250 pound centers. She dives onto shiny wooden floors and doesn't even notice when the skin about four layers down has peeled away and blood starts gushing all over the court.

This fear is different. It's unknown. She's never had to battle back from injury. She's never had to fight her own body to make it work again. And she's certainly never been at the will of anyone else to make those things happen.

I wonder, just before I drop her off, if I should have volunteered to be her personal chauffeur There are going to be a lot of nights like this. In fact, there are going to be a lot of nights that are worse than this. But then I remember: we're not competing any more. We're friends. And despite not having a lot of friends in my life, I do know that this is what friends do.


End file.
